


The Caretaker

by Gaffat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adlock, Adultery, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Drug Use, F/M, Hetlock, Irenelock, Opium, Sherene, The Abominable Bride, Violence, disguises, drug overdose, opera - Freeform, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaffat/pseuds/Gaffat
Summary: After the Scandal of the Bohemian king is resolved, Sherlock Holmes finds himself in a curious stupor that has no resolute explanation. That is until 'The Woman' returns to London, and later, to his doorstep in need of his consultation. Has her past come back to haunt her still? And can the detective face his own emotions in order to help her? Set in the BBC Sherlock Victorian setting (i.e The Abominable Bride), and written in 'roleplay' format. The rating will likely go up in later chapters. Please, any constructive criticism or just input would be greatly appreciated.





	1. Nursing

      Sherlock Holmes was bored. Again. For the third time that week, actually. Hell, he had been bored most of his adult life. And then some. The only relief he had had -- well, the only real relief -- was the meeting of one Miss Irene Adler a few months prior - in a way. Though, much to his uncharacteristic chagrin, he had discovered soon upon their ‘meeting’ that she was very soon about to forgo that title for that of a far more degrading, 'Mrs' so and so, to some barrister or duke. He really hadn't cared to find out which. Well, he had. But he quickly removed it from his brain. Yes, it had been several months since their meeting, and Sherlock had taken to his token dosage of diluted 0.07% cocaine, he had to admit, far more frequently than usual. Hell, he had even visited the opium den a bit more. But that had nothing to do with _her_. No. He was bored. And the cases that had arrived at 221b were achingly easy to solve. Not to mention predictable.

        For lack of further exaggeration, Irene was taking a risk turning back to London proper to seek Sherlock Holmes' assistance. But it was without doubt the foremost logical conclusion that came to her mind, and notably the more amusing. After their recent interaction she had little doubt about that. But could he help her now? That was the question she was eager to find the answer to, as she found herself in front of 221b Baker Street, ringing the bell.

        Sherlock, still reeling from the injection he had given himself about an hour or so ago, awoke from his self-induced coma, to find himself soaking in the bath, the room dim and full of incense as he had lowered the oil lights and lit some to cover the tobacco smoke he had indulged in before his even worse habit. Dr Watson never did cease to scold him, despite the fact that the man, himself, indulged in a cigar now and then. But that was the common pedestrian for you -- a hypocrite in every way.

            So far down his internal rant about his doctor had the consulting detective gone, he almost forgot what exactly had sprung him back to the dull world of reality. Oh, yes, the buzzer. Thank god, a client. _Better be a worthy one,_ he mused, humming to himself as he staggered up and reached for his dressing gown.

       "Let them in, Mrs Hudson. And do try and detain them with your endless prattling for a bit longer than usual....!" He bellowed down the stairs, needing a bit of extra time to get dressed....and well, sober. Ha.

       After the very sweet, if frazzled landlady answered the door, muttering to herself and then proceeding to strike up a rather mindless conversation about the weather, Irene politely if determinedly began to continue towards the stairs, as the woman tittered after her only briefly. Eventually she seemed to simply give up on her efforts, waving her on. Irene smiled only semi-apologetically and continued on to the landing, tapping a rhythm on the door.

      Having heard the polite,  determined rapping at his door (indicating a woman, at the least), Holmes quickly buttoned his trousers, threw on a waistcoat over his very disheveled collared shirt, and quickly parted and slicked back his hair before making his way to answer the door. His hand planted on the knob, he gave himself a brief, but vital moment to 'collect himself' indulging in a sharp breath, before he swung the door open to allow their entrance only to stand, albeit briefly dumbfounded at the sight before him. He quickly caught himself and recovered.

      "Miss Adler. I presumed as much." He drawled slowly, purposefully using her maiden title, though out of decided imprudence, bitterness, or even flirtation, he was not entirely sure.

    She looked him over with a quick, thorough inspection, before meeting his eyes, keeping any inquiry she may have had about his demeanor to herself for the moment, and choosing not to correct him.

     "Mr. Holmes. I hope it's not a bad time." She rose a brow faintly.  Though spoken like one, it was not a question.

     He eyed her levelly, only taking in her dark red dress and coat from his peripheral vision, and most certainly ignoring the rather risque neckline for the current decade, and replied curtly, "For you? Never. Please, sit down." He commanded rather than offered, pulling out his 'client chair' from the desk to place before his own leather-back one.

     "Merci beaucoup," she intoned casually, following him into the room, taking it in with a nod of fond approval. "Hm. Much cozier than your doctor seems to describe it," she remarked as she looked around, then took a seat as he seemed to will her to.

   The detective merely grunted at her remark, but did manage to give her a brief smile afterwards before crossing to sit in his own chair and steepled his fingers against his mouth. He gazed at at her. "So. What. Can. I. Help. You. With. Lady?"

    "I'd consider it helping each other," she replied, somewhat coyly, settling into the chair as comfortably as her gown would allow her. "You need something to solve, and I need a solution."

     "That is generally how it goes...." He murmured in response, crossing his legs as he noticed the buttons of his waist coat were mismatched and hoped to cover the error.

     "Husband up to no good? Judging by the curl of your collar and the tobacco stain on your left shirt sleeves I'd say so..."

   She gave an obscure smile. "I suspect so. But my concern isn't exactly of the adulterous fashion " she replied, almost flippantly. "As a lawyer he has dealings with all sorts, naturally, but I think a recent client of his may be of particular interest to you, and bother to me..." She began, at first vaguely.

   Sherlock pressed his forefingers against his gently parted lips as he both watched her and listened to her, tutting internally to himself as he did so.

     "I never claimed to infer it was adulterous, Mrs....? Please, kindly, don't put words in my mouth. My doctor does that enough for me already." He quipped, though gave her a warm smile upon his delivery. "Now then, a former client you say?..... Was this individual, at one time, a former client of _yours_ , as well...? Forgive me, I mean, a former admirer..." He wasn't quite sure if his vulgar implication of her character had been purposeful or not....

   Her look had a testing quality, a single brow twitching almost dryly. "Merely being clear, detective. Don't need you getting bored," she replied, before answering his inquiry. "But no. I became aware of him in my associations with our mutual acquaintance, the King of Bohemia...." She trailed with deliberate inference.

    He noted her glance and decided it best to tread lightly for the time being. That is, if he could get his wits about him. Her having two heads every now and then was certainly not aiding him any. Really shouldn't have upped the opium cut as much as he had. Oh well. Live and learn.

     "Right. Yes, of course. I trust you and he are still on cordial ground...? Or did I fail you, ultimately, by his sending over some sort of spy...?" Sherlock half guessed, half assumed as he ran his tongue over his teeth in a tetchy fashion.

    “I am not entirely sure, but that is where you come in, I'd say," she suggested, with a subtle smile watching his eyes lose some of their focus and seeming for the moment, amused. "My husband got him a reprieve from a murder charge a month or so past, I suspect under duress, but he seems to be lingering in the country longer than his intent was originally, never far from my own goings on. Could be coincidental, of course, but at risk of sounding superstitious - I doubt it."

    "And was he actually innocent? Or is your husband just exceptionally good at the artificial rhetoric required for a barrister and the usual accompaniment of being corrupt?" He asked her, well, more like challenged her, as he brought his hands away from his face finally to lean forwards.

    She almost chuckled. "He buried enough key evidence for reasonable doubt, which I have in my possession. It's yours, to aid you, if you can figure out why he's here and if it has anything to do with me," she offered, leaning forward to match him, almost instinctively.

     "So I take it you don't recognise him, then?" The detective asked for obvious clarification, standing as he did so to cross to his desk.

     "I never said as much. I know exactly who he is, what I don't know is if he's still in royal employ, and if not, whether that's worse. He was hired muscle, more or less, with all of it's implications." Her eyes followed him. "What I want to know is what he knows of me."

    Sherlock bit his inner cheek, a subtle curse escaping under his breath at himself for his foolish folly clearly brought about by his current state. Christ, it really did obstruct the brain. "I see. Yes, of course. Well, give me what you have on him, and I shall start right away.... I take it your husband has no idea of this... And thinks the matter settled?"

     "Oblivious.  As is his calling to be," she joked unceremoniously, plucking up the small case she had carried and removing a book of poetry, of seemingly normative looks, leather-bound and irrelevant. Opening it, the pages had been hollowed, leaving room for an assortment of documents, and folded correspondences, which she held out to him. "I don't suppose I need to tell you this isn't the most legal of methods on my part," she added, before he could snatch them, beginning to observe him in very real concern, as he began to sway on his feet.

     He almost laughed, but instead gave her a short nod and a grin as he reached out to grasp them from her. "Something tells me this isn't the first time that you have ever stepped out of the confines of the law, Miss Adler. And thanks be to god....." He was about to continue his statement when he suddenly felt a rushing of blood to his head and began to see stars. He quickly fainted thereafter.

* * *

 

      After the initial shock of his collapse, Irene got down on the floor to check on the detective's apparent state, finding him certainly alive but, after some prodding, decidedly unresponsive. She considered trying to call for the landlady, but didn't see much use. So, muttering a few curses she sought a cloth and some water, and the most pungent smelling thing in what she found to be his lab. She couldn't leave him alone, so she would attempt to awaken him, first politely, and if that failed, surely the glass vial in her hand could wake the dead.

      Trying to open his eyes, Sherlock, finally, came to, though his vision was cloudy to be sure. He could see the somewhat sinister, yet angelic figure of A Woman leaning over him, fretting to herself as she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead and cheek. He mumbled an incoherent sentence before closing his eyes once more.

      In an attempt to halt his inevitable pass back into unconsciousness, Irene slapped his cheek briskly. "Mr. Holmes! I really would rather not have to run and fetch your medic, as I'm sure you'd agree..." She attempted to lure, hopefully while she had some amount of his attention, looking down at him more closely, her brow furrowed.

      He hazily nodded a subtle yes, as his left hand reached out towards her right cheek, cupping it tightly and bringing her towards him to mutter, "I think I may have overdosed.... Get the box underneath my bed.... And for god's sake do not call for Dr Watson....”

       "...We'll see," she replied, briefly, in albeit hopeful doubt, before standing to quickly do as he instructed, though finding it more than a bit ironic and equally worrisome that the only useful man in town was also being quite useless to himself. She brought the box back to him, settling it less than subtly on his chest to make sure he remained somewhat tethered. "What were you using?"

       He fluttered his eyelids at her as he did his best to prop himself up on his left elbow. "A solution of opium and cocaine...." He muttered finally, opening the box to examine his vials. "Fuck..." He uttered beneath his breath. "Right..... So... In a few moments I will likely lose all motor function... I may even convulse and perhaps vomit... I'll need water. Lots of water. And whatever I say, do not give me any more... Understand.... Assuming you are willing to stay with me... This may... Take a while..."

        She looked unsure of herself for perhaps one of the few obvious times in her adult life, as she watched him shakily inject himself with what she assumed to be an ‘opioid antagonist’ to help counter the OD, but nodded resolutely. "Don't have anything better to do," she conceded, in somewhat fabricated reluctance, settling herself more directly beside him.           

     Sherlock shuddered involuntarily, reaching a hand out to grasp the folds of her dress. "Get these clothes off. Please." He rarely ever employed such prudent jargon; certainly he was in a sorry state. Though, to be fair, she did bring out the 'worst' in him. Though others might concede to say 'the best'.

      She didn't hesitate, given it seemed the only rational response as she witnessed sweat begin to pebble his forehead. Though it was only after she had assisted in stripping him of his waistcoat and half the buttons of his shirt that she had the inkling of her unusual place in this situation enough to make a comment as she continued. "You're lucky, Mr. Holmes, that I'm not your usual squeamish prude or you'd be left to your own devices."

      He let out an audible chuckle before furrowing his brows as he convulsed again. "Yes.... Well, luckily for me I have good taste...." He stated, rather ambiguously, hoping she wouldn't take note.

     She shushed him briefly, pressing on his bare chest lightly to still him as she pushed the shirt open and quickly pulled down his trousers. "Stay. I'll get more water." She demanded briefly before hopping up as quickly as her garment allowed.

     Never had Sherlock been in a more compromising and vulnerable position. Not to mention humiliating. And he only had himself to blame. Naturally. As he heard her walk away to fetch more water he managed to kick off his trousers before attempting to sit up. Not a good idea as it turned out. He suddenly felt horribly sick. He crawled, sweating and clothed in only his pants, to the nearby fireplace in which he proceeded to vomit what little food he had ingested that day into it. The once intrepid detective was grovelling on the floor. And worst of all, _she_ was witness to all of it.    

     " _Woman_ ..... _!_ " He mumbled, pressing the heels of his hands to his eye sockets.

     Her hard soled shoes clicked efficiently back to him, immediately crouching down to retrieve the damp cloth she had used to awaken him and pour more water on it, rolling him as best as she was able. His head ended up in her lap, which was good to elevate it, but somewhat inconvenient for her dress. She dabbed his face, then handed him the pitcher. "Drink."

      He did as he was told, lapping up the water eagerly before pushing the pitcher back and allowing his head to fall backwards into her lap once more. He started to shiver and then shake, and closed his eyes tightly. "I. Am. Sorry. Miss Adler..." He stuttered out, reaching his hands to curl his fingers in the fabric of her dress.

     "Oh, don't apologize to me, you'll be sorry enough for yourself later," she attempted to jest faintly, keeping his attention on her. "Though it's safe to say you'll be taking my case."  

        He nodded and managed to even grin. "Yes. On the house, I imagine...." He replied. "Can you take me to my bed....?" He asked, ignoring the shock value of such an idea in this day and age in England. People really were such idiots. At all times, it seemed.

      "I can certainly help, but for proportions’ sake I'm afraid you will need to be conscious for it," she replied, raising her brows for emphasis as she looked him over briefly.

      He frowned at her and squinted, confused by her suggestion. "Wouldn't my being _unconscious_ prove more safe for the sake of your _honour_?"

       She chuckled wryly. "To be blunt, you have a good 50 lbs on me, or there abouts and nearly a foot in height. If you want to make it there without being dragged I will need you to try to somewhat propel yourself."

       "Right. Of course.... _proportion_ not _propriety_ …." He corrected himself, struggling to his hands and knees before bringing himself to his feet, using her as an aid. As they made their way to his room, Sherlock paused a moment and looked at her suddenly, "You know, you really are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen...."

       Irene merely gave him a crooked smile. "Tell me that when you're not drugged and delirious," she suggested playfully as she led him to the edge of his bed, urging him with a soft shove to fall back onto it.

\---


	2. The Opera

_"You know, you really are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen...."_

_"Tell me that when you're not drugged and delirious"_

* * *

 

_  
        _ He did as she suggested, submitting his form into the bed with great relief before clawing at the bed sheets. He was suddenly very cold. "Stay with me...." He half asked half ordered. "Please."

        She pulled back the only half-made covers for him, and nodded slowly in assent, unable to refuse. "Just to make sure you don't keel over on us yet, Mr. Holmes," she assured encouragingly, her reluctance mostly feigned.   

      "Would you care?" He asked her somewhat absentmindedly, tucking his feet under the covers before scooting over to allow her access.

      She hiked up her skirt to a manageable height and settled beside him. "I think you're far more impactful, shall we say, than you realise," she remarked vaguely.

       "I'm well aware of that fact, Miss Adler." He began drowsily, tugging the sheet up to his chin as he closed his eyes, the opium more than certainly taking over now and putting him a state of near lucid dreaming. He would certainly be out cold soon. And probably for the best. But for now, he would chase the Red Dragon, and indulge himself. "It's not the imbecilic commonwealth I was referring to. It was you." He rebutted, the countermeasure finally beginning to take it’s hold on his opioid receptors.

      Her brow raised, with a challenging smile. "Who's to say I wasn't referring to myself?" She responded lightly, nudging the blanket over him more smoothly, but not before feeling his forehead to check for fever.

     "Because you said _we_ ," he countered, regressing a bit as sleep began to seep in through the cracks of his consciousness. "And unless you are Her Majesty in a very convincing fancy-dress, as I know you are partial to donning other habits, what else could you have meant.... Unless you were doing that thing women love to do.... Being coy..." He shivered in mock disgust, and managed even to chuckle.  
      
     "You could say I've based my whole life on that _thing_ , Mr. Holmes, so perhaps you should get used to it," she suggested lightly, perhaps with a bit too strong of an insinuation of their future association. Though given she did just hire him, so it was arguably inevitable.  
      
     He grunted in amusement, curling his legs up into the fetal position as he made himself more comfortable, titling his head more towards her. "I think I can manage that....." He trailed off, his mind wandering back to _that_ night at the theatre when and where he had last seen her since their initial interaction.

    "Been to the Opera lately?" He dared chance, his tone suddenly thicker and darker.  
       
     She eyed him in playful suspicion at his change of tone. "Not recently enough," she replied bluntly, settling herself more cozily into 'her' side of his bed as opposed to the perhaps, expected response of distance.  
         
     "... Husband forbid you to go or something?" He asked lightly, more in jest than anything else, but there was a sense of bitter irony in his tone, not to mention the fact that he could still recall the sense memory of her lips against his as they were pressed against the corner of her box.  
      
      She laughed. "Please. He wouldn't dare," she replied though was somewhat amused at the thought of him trying. "Just nothing's caught my attention lately," she remarked, less than subtle insinuation though it may be, also quite true. Ever since the bored detective had interrupted her earlier showing with his company, she'd gone a handful of times, of course, but it nearly seemed incomplete without him 'ruining' it for her.  
      
      He grunted, lifting his head to lay on her lap as his eyes began to feel even heavier, "Mind stroking my hair? Mother used to do it whenever I was ill..... And I must say, you should probably be performing more than attending.... Would he let you?"  
      
      "Haven't asked," she replied in a simple response, if a tad wistful as she let her fingers fall into his locks, now failing at being slicked back. "Apparently I should look into nursing," she taunted him mildly, feeling his head again for heat, as her fingers trailed back from his scalp briefly. Warmer perhaps than was normative, but nothing dangerous, thankfully. Whatever he used had done it's work.  
     
     "I was just about to say the same thing...." He murmured, a small purr-like noise issuing from the back of his throat. "I never told Dr Watson, just so you know..." He offered suddenly.  
      
      Perhaps unwisely encouraged by his response, she chuckled mildly, nearly feeling like she was entertaining a rather ill-mannered jungle cat. Perhaps for the best. "Good to know I won't show up in _The_ _Strand_ anytime soon," she remarked, casually enough. "God forbid I ruin your antisocial reputation."  
      
     "God forbid I ruin your marriage...." He word-vomited suddenly. “Apologies. That came out rather clumsily." He quickly tried to render his forward mistake. "Sentience is not my forte...."  
      
     "So I can tell," she replied, wryly, eyeing him with barely repressed amusement. "Just get some rest, detective. I venture you'll need it," she encouraged quietly, lightening her contact with his scalp.  "I'll linger."  
     
     "How can you possibly linger....? You have a husband...." He reminded her, yawning softly as he did so. “Won't he be expecting you?”

     "He's out of the city on business, or I wouldn't have been able to get those documents from him in the first place," she replied with a mild chuckle, ironic yet somewhat flat. "So I have some time. Sleep," she pestered him, a tad more firmly. "I'll send for your doctor before I leave."  
      
      "But does he know you're here?" Sherlock couldn't help but question, a soft moan of sorts escaping from the back of his throat as her fingers deftly made their way through his hair.  
     
      She rolled her eyes half-heartedly at his insistence to continue talking. "Given I'd rather him not nose in on the investigating, as it involves his professional reputation...no, he doesn't," she replied in earnest.  
       
      "Of course, of course. Obviously.... Blame it on the overdose...." He murmured back, hand coming up to grip her waist lightly.

     "Why..... Why did you do that?”  
       
     "Do what?" She inquired absently before realising the very limited number of events he could be referring to and hummed in amusement,  deciding a broad logic was needed. "Hm. The same reason I do everything, I suspect. Because I wanted to at the time," she answered directly, pulling his head up to face her gently but firmly. "Now stop interrogating me and go to sleep, Mr. Holmes."  
      
    Ever the stubborn mule, Sherlock insisted on opening his eyes yet again, briefly making contact with her own, to inquire further, “But _why_ did you want to _then_?"

    "Maybe because I thought it amusing to make you wonder for the rest of your life " she suggested playfully, though with outward strain.

     If Sherlock heard her comment he made no verbal or physical sign for the selectively inexpedient detective’s habits had come to a zenith, propelling him over the ledge of consciousness and into the sub counterpart. Yes he was finally, safely, in the realms of sleep. Or one could hope. His dreams always proved far more dangerous and illicit when he was ‘under the influence’, especially given that he usually was able to steer them, at least at the start.

     And given their immediate conversation, Sherlock Holmes, found himself reliving that very night. He could recall it exceptionally well sober, so being high seemed to add a somewhat surreal aspect to it - the details, however, were still stunningly and ever present...

* * *

 

 

         “Dr Watson if you put any more wax on that mustache of yours I swear to God I'll light it as a candle. Would you please do me the _arduous_ favour of hurrying up? We’re going to to be late -- probably your intention, no doubt.” Sherlock chided the doctor aggressively. He was dressed to the tails in his favourite tuxedo, his white dress gloves firmly gripped by his left hand as his right brandished a shiny new top hat, as the pair were going to Opera. Don Giovanni, one of his personal favourites. He adjusted his golden-yellow cravat before shifting his weight in an obvious declaration of even further impatience with his flatmate, friend, and partner in crime. “It looks _fine_!” He hissed as he watched John continue to ignore him as he twisted the ends of his facial trophy between his forefingers.

         The doctor stubbornly finished his motions and took his time surveying the end result in the mirror, before finally turning around. “I’m _finished_. Now let’s get to your bloody singalong,” he brandished, finally able to delay no longer lest his companion go into a tantrum. A worse fate than an opera surely.

       Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead shutting them as he inhaled sharply before reopening them to reply quickly, “Can't you have a bit more class than that? It's the National Italian Opera. You should be humbled to even be before them. Besides, we both know you more than enjoy being able to watch the women’s heaving bosoms from above. I really should confiscate those binoculars of yours…” Sherlock muttered the last bit to himself, and though still irritated and somewhat dismayed by his doctor’s mildly pervish ways, he did, nevertheless, manage a chuckle at the thought.

       “And take away my entertainment? Never,” he imposed, tugging on his overcoat, and patting the pockets to ensure all of his effects - opera glasses included, were in their proper location. “And if you’re planning to continue solving actor’s menial cases in exchange for box seats, I’ll need them anyway. Now let’s go.”

      This time Sherlock did roll his eyes. “Finally.” He retorted at the man, placing his hat on his head before slipping his long, pale digits in his gloves, and leading the pair downstairs and to the street.

      They were able to get a hansom cab relatively quickly, which, given that it was a Friday night and on the precipice of curtain time for theatres all across London, proved quite impressive. As the cab rattled along Sherlock gazed out the window, though his mind was firmly planted inside the vehicle. He stole a glance at his companion, then returned his watch to the passing streets of London.

      “You’ve met someone.” It wasn't a question. It was a deduction. And one his doctor would surely be unkind to.

      “Oh, did I?” John retorted. He was a tad annoyed that the ‘observer’ had chosen to pick him apart today, but was more than anything just toying with him. “I thought you wholly ignorant of emotional response.” The sarcasm did not bother to hide itself.

      “I am.” Sherlock defended curtly, “However, the ink markings on the base of your right hand of what looks to be the smeared name of a Lady’s, paired with your visit to the post office earlier today, and your recent purchase of that horrid cologne, collectively inform me that you have met someone. And it seems as if you plan to see her again. Correct?” He asked him for confirmation, though it was hardly needed.

       “Yes, actually,” Watson confirmed, somewhat reluctantly. “And I think I might have found one you won’t scare off for me,” he added, rather happily for defiance’s sake.

        Sherlock quirked a skeptical, or perhaps, _worried_ brow, “Oh? And pray tell how do you know that? Come now. Relay your observations and subsequent deductions of her for me. You have been getting better as of late; somewhat…” he gave his friend a polite smile.

       Watson rolled his eyes briefly. “Don’t need to. She’s neither meek nor religious - thereby won’t try to exorcise you like that one unfortunate experience - she thinks solving crimes sounds like a _fascinating_ pastime. And she’s worked as a nurse so isn’t going to faint every time she walks into the flat, when you have dismembered squires sitting about. In short - conveniently immune to your unusual brand of terror.”

      “Hmph. And how is she with sarcasm?” He couldn't help but press, trying, in vain probably to locate some sort of problem with her.

      “Excellent,” Watson recalled pointedly. “So long as you don’t go out of your way to be an arse, it should be perfect.” The mustachioed doctor gave him a pointed look. “Which you won’t.”

      The detective merely grunted as he settled into his seat and tilted his head against the pane, John’s eager and no doubt affectionate words towards his new love interest surely a clear indication of impending changes. Changes that would probably lead to the ‘abandoning’ of 221b, as well as to the sleuth himself. That would not do. Not at all. He had settled into a shared life and profession with the man. He was his one true and only friend. To lose him, after having tasted just a fraction of what John was full-in now with _her_ , would be detrimental to his mental health. Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in ‘Depression’ or other absurd afflictions of the mind, but that didn't mean he wasn't susceptible to them.

      Sensing the innate disapproval emanating from the taller man, John Watson decided to counteract it in a way that would no doubt end his sullen silence, whether willingly or no. “What about you, hm?” he pushed vaguely if none too subtly.

      “What _about_ me?” Sherlock echoed in evident annoyance at the absurdity of the question, and implication, itself.

       “Perhaps you should try to find a woman who isn’t terrified of you,” he suggested wryly, though with clear intent. “Specifically if you’re going to spend this much time at the opera,” he added, the statement having the more obvious inclination, yet also a hint of something specific in relation.

       Sherlock about growled but managed to restrain himself, instead he looked over at Dr Watson pointedly and asked crassly, “What on earth would I do with do with a _female companion_ , Dr Watson, if I can barely stand that of a man’s? I told you once already, I'm married to my work. And despite those disgusting whispers of our bloody Strand readers’ I don't… I'm not…. Let's just say I would never be tried for gross indecency like the national treasure that is Wilde; bless his heart. Humanity is so very base when it comes to love.”

      “Oh, I know that. But that leaves you with the fairer sex, like it or not, ‘married’ to your cases or no. But, on the subject, that last point, if humanity is so _base_ I can presume you have a more _romantic_ view,” he pointed out with dry emphasis.

       The detective tensed his jaw, silently reproaching himself for being so foolish enough to walk into a trap laid by none other than himself, and one that so readily served Dr Watson’s initial point.

      “You know what I meant!” He hissed back, adjusting his top hat errantly before adding hastily, “What you constantly seem to forget, doctor, is that I am not like you. I do not give in to any biological urges. I am above them. Therefore, that leads the want of a wife for...companionship. Let's say. But I doubt I could ever find a _woman_ that could successfully fulfill that requirement for _Me_.” He lied.

       Watson chuckled. “I wouldn’t challenge the universe, Holmes. You’re not a god, you’re a man. And even if you were, they’re no more immune according to the Greeks. And you, like any other God or man or beast, can be - and have been - charmed by a woman. Get off your high horse and admit it, for once.”

      “I have not!” He bit back somewhat acidly, immediately fidgeting with the very pocket watch whose secret contents clearly proved otherwise. Not that John knew about the portrait kept in its locket. Dear god, he hoped not. “I have never suffered to arrow of Cupid or Cherub’s bow, thank you very much!”

        The doctor followed the detective’s long fiddling fingers with a direct and knowing look at the watch in question. “Right,” he agreed in the most sarcastic manner possible. “If you say so.”

       “What? It's a watch, doctor. It tells the time. And right now it's telling me that this conversation is over.” He huffed in haphazard denial of John’s look, which could only indicate that he knew of the watch’s secret penetration.

      “Irene Adler, hm?” Watson decided to prod simply after moment to verify that the detective would continue to avoid the topic. “Would take a woman to outsmart you.”

       Sherlock shot him a deadly glare. “She was a formidable opponent, to be assured. In a league of her own. And the quintessential example of what her sex _could_ be. Hell, what _humanity_ could be. If they were anything like _either_ of us. But that is all Doctor Watson. Besides, she’s married, remember.” He added flashing his brows at the man as his sardonic tone lingered in the air.

     Watson seemed thoroughly unconvinced.  “We’ve had many formidable opponents, Holmes,” the doctor countered subtly. “I don’t see you carting a photo of Moriarty around on your person.” He made a gesture of surrender. “Just a suggestion. You might just like looking at it.”

     He rolled his eyes at the man defiantly, “And even if I do, then what? What does that prove? Hm? Anyone with a symmetrical face and high cheek bones such as she has been awarded by nature is going to of course be appealing to the biology of any man. Throw in her mind, and well, maybe even I enjoy her portrait. So what? It doesn't mean I….” He suddenly stopped short and shut his mouth, feeling the colour drain from his face.

    John Watson gave him a pointed clap on the shoulder as the carriage began to slow to a stop, an amused yet somewhat pitying expression crossing his features at exactly how shocked he seemed to be at his own words. “Congratulations. You’re attracted to a woman. Welcome to humanity. Awful isn’t it?”

     Sherlock was a bit too stunned at his own backwards admittance to answer. Instead, he merely gave an ambiguous nod to his partner before following after him out of the cab and into the theatre. He didn't even recall paying the fair, though surely he did.  
     
    Once inside an safely in their box seats he was most grateful for the dimming of the lights and for the first half of the show to begin. He adored this opera; he adored this composer. And young man of brilliance and talent, and yes, even severe immaturity that died far too young and much before his time. How he related to W.A. Mozart. The man literally had 'God 'in his name. Perhaps his own parents should have taken note. Oh well. He was egotistical enough as it was, he supposed. But still, even he, the brilliant detective couldn't get _her_ out of his mind. Every God had their Achilles heel. Shame his took the form of a Woman.

      Upon their initial, perhaps unwise but ultimately logical decision to return to London, Irene had been of a particular mind (which she had expressed quite persistently to her husband) to return in time to make a showing of this performance. Not only was it a brilliant opera, naturally, but she was familiar with the company of actors. However, being heaped in his more ‘practical’ occupation, she ended up attending alone and unhindered. At least times had progressed to allow her the luxury. She kept a keen eye on her surroundings, but most everyone was unfamiliar  - and those who weren’t didn’t seem to pay her any mind. All the better, she supposed, to not be bothered.  
       
     There were in fact very few people she could think of wanting to see, save perhaps one. Though the likelihood of the infamous consulting detective showing up to the opera seemed limited. He was probably doing something far more scientific, and presumably there was no mystery to solve at this theater, tonight. Unfortunately. And if one cropped up, she mused as she sat herself in her box, it should at least wait for the second act.     

       Meanwhile Sherlock was busy eagerly examining the patrons of the theatre that night, employing John’s beloved opera glasses to do so. He went down each row of the stalls below him and made his silent observations and deductions of whose wife was cheating on who and with which fellow husband in the crowd, or vice versa. The gossip itself was amusing enough, he only wondered why more people didn't bother to learn the extremely useful art of lip-reading. He was about to turn to Dr Watson to inform him of a particular scandalous and absurd affair that was going on between the Duchess of Norfolk and one of her son’s friends, as it were, when his magnified eyes caught sight of a woman in the far box to their left. A woman whose same face was both before him as well as underneath the secret copmartment of his pocket watch, of which its existence had caused such a headache for him the entire eve.

    He stared at her eagerly, almost obsessively one could say, through the binoculars, and would have carried on doing so until per gamble began, had it not been for the tugging fingers and voice of his increasingly insufferable companion.

      “Holmes…” Watson repeated,trying to get the man’s attention once again. When he felt him shift, in acknowledgement he specified. “It’s nearly started. What are you even staring at?”

      “What?! Nothing! …. Nothing. Sorry, thought I saw Mycroft.” He chuckled quickly at his inventive lie. “Though to be fair, he’d likely be one of the ones onstage, no?” He gave John a cheeky grin before handing the binoculars over. The last thing he needed was to be tempted to watch her in the stead of the stage for the first half. Even the doctor would surely notice that.

     Giving his friend a briefly suspicious glance, Dr Watson eventually let the topic go with a scoff. “Now that _would_ be a laugh,” he replied, taking back the opera glasses and settling into his seat for what would end up being an absurdly long, if hopefully good performance.

     Try as he might, Sherlock Holmes could not fully concentrate on the story before him. Thankfully he knew it well. However, given the calibre of such a company it really was a shame that he found himself so very distracted by his constant checking of her person with his eyes. He did his best not to fidget, though he would have given anything for a smoke on his pipe at that moment. Luckily, the gods did smile down on him somewhat that night, as Dr John Watson’s indifference to the arts soon took over and he was safely snoozing by about forty minutes in, and therefore, was unable to comment on the detective’s anxious agitations.

      Finally, however, the curtain went up to mark the beginning of the interval. Before John could properly awake, Sherlock brushed past his chair and out the back curtain of their box, mumbling hastily under his breath some excuse about needing to use the loo and that he’d be right back, before he gingerly made his way round the grand circle towards her box. He hesitated once he was outside, not wanting to accost her lest she too was planning on getting up. Once he had waited a few moments, and had concluded that she had decided to stay put for the recess, he quietly slipped in and sat in the empty chair behind her figure.

     He waited. “Save the sexual promiscuity, I can't help but see myself in Mr Giovanni….. How about you, Miss Adler?” He finally murmured, softly.

     Momentarily startled by someone interrupting her solitude, it only took a couple of seconds to recognise the tone and timbre of the detective she had not long ago mused upon. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. “Can certainly see the theatricality,” she countered, before turning to face the man in question with a smile. “No criminals to chase this evening?” She raised a brow in inquiry.

     "None save you...." He jested lightly, staying out behind her and in the shadows of the curtain lest someone be watching them. "And whoever choose this dreadful pattern of curtains." He added slyly, keeping his gaze fixated on the curve of her neck.

      “You caught me,” she replied lightly, with a hint of a smirk at his looming presence, and his offshoot of a comment. “Usually a good place to find me, when the right opera presents itself.”

    "I couldn't agree more. Believe or not, Miss Adler, I do share your love of the theatre.... Does your husband not? Or do you just like to laugh in the face of Victorian conventionality?" He dared, leaning forward in his seat as he made reference to her solo appearance that evening.

     “Never miss an opportunity,” she replied to his latter inquiry with rather shameless sincerity. “Though in this event it is entirely both,” she amended, not entirely sure what the addition would accomplish other than add that it was not all for her rebellion’s sake that she came ‘unattended’. “Had a few more…practical responsibilities.”

     He gave a short nod, though she couldn't exactly be witness to it. "I see. Well, I hope you two are...very happy. Especially after the lengths you made me go to.... Brava, again, Miss Adler. And thank you.... For the letter.... And portrait...." He stammered out, a bit more nervous-sounding than he had ever been in his life, not to mention had ever planned to have been.

     “You’re very good at what you do, Mr. Holmes,” she averted, somewhat, noting his more cautionary tone. “I was almost sorry to avert you. But, I’ve always preferred to keep my fate – and my reputation, in my own hands. I can hope ‘his highness’ didn’t give you any trouble.” His title was spoken in a wry tone bordering on the edge of sarcasm, but it was subtle enough that if overheard wouldn’t be quite such abrupt disrespect.

    Sherlock tongued his back left molar for a moment, fighting a wry smile at her response before he adjusted his seat and patted down his already refined slicked back hair.  
     
     "And that is why I so respect you. But not to worry, the Prussian king was easily dealt with. I believe he wishes you and your betrothed the best and nothing less. As do we all, I'm sure. Now then, I suppose it's time I take my leave...." He rambled beginning to stand up slightly.

    “You’re welcome to stay…” She found herself replying before consciously deciding to, but her thoughts didn’t particularly alter once she considered the words. “Unless you’ll be missed elsewhere…”

    "And for what point?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask, pausing his journey to double back to where she was sat. He looked down at her longingly.

    “Intelligent company. Don’t tell me you’re terrified of societal gossip, too?” she challenged, knowingly, heaving a mockery of a baleful sigh. “How very dull of you, detective.”

     He gave her a small smile. "I should go." And then turned in his heel slowly. He feared what he might say -- or desire to say -- if he stayed any further.

     “You’ll miss the beginning of the next act if you walk all the way back now…” Irene suggested logically, standing briefly to get a better look over the balcony, as the rest of the patrons began to sidle back into their seats. She faced him with a challenging look, clearly making a point for whatever reason to intrude on his awkwardness. Whether for want of his company or just to prove she could, she wasn’t entirely certain – more than likely both. “And I haven’t actually seen an opera with someone I hadn’t needed to drag in quite some time.”

      He hesitated, his weight falling on his back leg as his eyes continued to hold her gaze evenly. He opened his mouth. Then shut it. And opened it once more. “...Dr Watson is likely to wonder where I am…. And he says I'm the dependent one… Besides, you shouldn't be seen with a bachelor, Miss Adler. People could talk.” The irony of him using her maiden name did not entirely go beyond his notice.

     “Fairly certain in my case they’ve said all they could say,” she responded pointedly, with a small chuckle of indifference, pacing towards him a few paces. “But if you fear being called a Don Giovanni I suppose I’ll have to understand.”

      “I believe I’ve already called myself that, Miss Adler.” He replied coolly, though his pulse was surely being to pulse rapidly. He stood his ground, however. “.....What do you want?”

        “World peace, votes for women, find out where Jack the Ripper ran off to, and for you to keep me company,” she quickly replied mostly as a distraction, as her hand clasped his while he was focused on her words, and beginning to step back to her seat and the one beside it under the hope, or educated assumption he would concede. He had gone out of his way to be proper, poor man, but it clearly wasn’t his natural tendency. Not in full.

      He smirked, “I don't hold out much hope for the first one, the second will be coming sooner rather than later, thank god, and believe it or not I think I'm pretty certain of his identity...need to check a couple of facts there…. However, as for your last proposition….” He swallowed as his eyes diverted down to her gloved hand in his, “I would be… Honoured. I will have to concoct a story for Watson later, but I'm sure that should be elementary.” He gave her a secretive smile as he performed his chivalrous duty of helping her back in her seat. He then sat down next to her where she had prompted him to before. He noted, with keen interest, that she left her petite hand on top of his, which was perched on his right thigh.

    “I’ll expect a full a report on that later,” she jokingly demanded with an amused and rather intrigued glance at his response, obviously not actually expecting a response to such a request. “But good man. Not un-feasibly stubborn after all.”

     He let out an audible 'Ha!' Throwing his head back somewhat as he did so. "Right. Well, perhaps. If you're still in town. And to be honest, Miss Adler, I really don't think there is anyone else on this earth that would agree with that statement. But thank you, nevertheless."

     “Oh? Does that make me special?” she prodded, playfully, in response, just before the curtain began to rise once again, and the scene slowly became visible.

    He looked at her and was about to try and finagle a response to such an inquiry when he, was quite literally, saved by the curtain. He, instead, gave her hand a small squeeze before fixating his eyes on the performance below him, lest he look at the one to his right.

     After the initial beginning, there was a shockingly comfortable silence during a good portion of the drama, save when one of them decided to make a comment on the current proceedings, which was perhaps just common enough to be expected, by the time the plot was beginning to reach its ultimate conclusion. “Do you think he deserves his fate, Mr. Holmes?” she inquired randomly, curiously, as she eyed him and his mostly rapt attention.

    He tore his eyes, and ears away from the crescendo of action to meet her intent look. "Don't we all, Miss Adler? We reap what we sow, I believe. More or less. But yes, I do. In my observations, I've never come across any Womaniser that didn't deserve such a hellish fate. But pray tell, what do you think?" He asked her curiously; head tilting towards her own as he waited to hear her own answer. He could smell the pheromones of her skin and the light honeysuckle of her scent. It was intoxicating. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in the smooth, alabaster skin of her Swan-like neck.

        She hummed, eyes narrowed in thought as she half-watched the events of the opera while the rest of her attention was drawn carefully inward. “I suppose it depends on your definition, doesn’t it? While he was only out for his own gain and cared not for whom he injured in the process, yes, I suppose he does deserve retribution for that. But I’ve never liked the idea that desire brings nothing but hellfire and brimstone, really. A bit old fashioned and prudish, if I do say so myself…” she glanced at him, curiously, to chance his initial reaction to her words.

       Sherlock suddenly felt his inner workings come to a screeching halt at her words, and specifically, at _desire_ , itself. For, that was exactly the foreign _feeling_ that he had been privy to experiencing ever since he had met The Woman. And most certainly even more so now in such proximity and amid such theatrics. This was getting quite dangerous. For many reasons, least of all the obvious one.

      He needed to vacate her presence. _Now_ . As his brother always said, _Caring is never an advantage._ Mix that in with lust, or desire, or whatever base and vexing biological urge he was also experiencing, and one surely was in for even a worse disadvantage.

      He cleared his throat softly and began to quickly stand, ducking so as not to draw attention to himself from the other members of the audience below or across.

     “I'm so sorry, Miss Adler, but I must leave you now. Dr Watson will be worried.” He muttered at her as he past her chair, stopping briefly to draw her hand up to kiss before vanishing behind the box’s curtain.

        She rose while he was in mid-motion in surprise at his sudden dismissal, though watching his antsy response with a softly amused, calculating gaze, her feet stepped after him through some perhaps illogical will of their own, something in her unwilling to let him depart her presence so quickly, or at the least without leaving a more lasting impression.

     “Mr. Holmes?” she pressed, quietly, coming up on his heels,  awaiting him to turn about to address her. She wasted no time as he did so, surprising him with her nearness and leaning on her toes before he could speak up on his confusion, pressed her lips lightly against the plushness of his.

      To say Sherlock had suffered from shock during that moment would have been a grave understatement, indeed. He did, however, manage to right himself, in his subconscious, and found his dream self doing the opposing thing he would have done in any other instance if this event were reoccurring: _he indulged_. His hands somehow found her waist and he hugged her to him, his lips returning the pressure of hers as his tongue eagerly sought refuge in her mouth. He felt on fire, from deep down in his core, a place he had for so long ignored.

       The woman hummed in pleased surprise at his eagerness, her lips parting in welcome for his unexpected intrusion. Pressing into his chest, and stepping to her tiptoes to grip his shoulders, she stepped back one step and then another, pulling him with her until her back hit the wall just short of re-entering her box, the final act nothing but a distant crescendo.

        The detective dared to continue his actions for lack of any better idea -- leaving seemingly eclipsed by this new discovery of carnal desires -- lifting up the folds of her crimson taffeta gown and subsequent petticoat to grip her by the hips, his hands running along her bloomers to find them. He frowned somewhat as his digits hit her corset, denying him the warmth of her skin that her warm thighs through the thin fabric had previously provided. Nevertheless, he lifted her suddenly and thrust his hips forward, inviting her to wrap her legs round his waist before attacking her lips once more. A soft moan escaped the back of his throat as he tasted her tongue against his.

    His mind had come to a complete standstill, the gears halted as if a wrench had been thrown in and a smoky fogginess thicker than any London had ever beheld was crawling in. Meanwhile, the crescendo of the climax of Don Giovanni reverberated around them, the terrifying arrival of a stone visitor from beyond the grave, the Commendatore. But wait a moment, that wasn't the actor's voice he heard condemning Giovanni. No, it was a far more familiar voice. But it couldn't be…. he was dead, after all…. _wasn't he?_ Flashes of that night at the waterfall in Reichenbach suddenly ran through his mind. He pulled back in horror and fear, eyes searching hers desperately.

    “Do you hear _him_?” He asked her in a agonised whisper.

\----


	3. Madame Simza

          Irene awoke from her doze with a start as the man beside her flailed against the mattress in the throes of some opiate-induced nightmare. He was saying something, somewhat too close to a murmur even with the elevation of his voice to understand, not at first. But he repeated it, again and again, with varying timbre until the words were relatively clear.

           “Mr. Holmes?!” She chanced to raise her voice subtly into his ear, her hand landing on the heated skin of his shoulder, attempting to jar him.

          Sherlock jolted awake, panting with a cold sweat lathering his body. He blinked twice, sitting up as he tried to take in the room and calm the hyperactive beating of his heart. His eyes finally found hers, filled with concern. He swallowed and closed his eyes, leaning his torso against the bed frame heavily.  
“Water. Please.” He stated simply, eyes still firmly shut, blocking out his vision of the world until it stilled and regulated.

          She nodded, standing to her feet to fetch it from the pitcher she had filled for him before, in the sitting room. Sitting back by his side on her arrival, she handed him a drinking glass eagerly, and waited until his mouth ceased occupation.

  
“Nightmare?” She pressed lightly, knowingly.

          “Something like that….” he replied faintly, passing the empty cup back to her before rubbing his eyes with a hand. His lips twitched as he recalled hearing that voice again and shivered. Though that was hardly the only trick of his nervous system as he became suddenly aware of a troubling throbbing sensation below his waist.

            He let out an inner groan as he peaked an eye open to confirm that the tightening of his trousers was due to one thing and one thing only. _Damn bloody Woman._ Even in his dreams he wasn't safe. He quickly grabbed a nearby pillow and placed it over his lap, trying to appear as casual as he could within the context of his frenzied state. He prayed she hadn't noticed.

She eyed his motion with a subtle twitch of her brow, though remained generally neutral of expression. “Horror comes in many forms,” she quipped with an encouraging albeit amused tone, making it as mild as possible lest he become agitated further. She laid his empty glass on the bedside table.

          “You should get back to sleep,” she recommended.

          The shock of it all was hitting the detective hard and it wasn't just the nightmare, or Jim’s presence in it. Almost more terrifying to him was what the dream had done to his memory of that night. He had twisted the events into a sort of fiction full of carnal desire and biological needs. In reality, she had indeed kissed him that night - and though not a chaste kiss, certainly not as impassioned as his dream had made it, not to mention the fact that he had barely returned the pressure, having fled the scene as awkwardly and as quickly as could be imagined of his person. The question nevertheless remained, _why_ had his dream bastardised his Mind Palace so? This had never happened before. Well not really.

         When he had first met The Woman that was Irene Adler, of course, there were some mild stirrings at his core. But nothing that wouldn't be unexpected or inevitable when a man of his calibre met a woman that matched his, if not exceeded it. However, this dream, and its biological repercussions were beyond harrowing to him. He was suddenly and for the first time unable to control his matter with his mind. There was only one thing to do. He needed to see Madam Simza and he needed to see her now. For all her absurd mystic nonsense there was a certain method to her madness that he suspected was more healthy intuition than superstition. Besides, she owed him one. A big one. Better her than some under qualified physiology student. Besides, worst case he’d call her bluff and move on.

          And so it was a sudden sense of hasty propriety that Sherlock turned to Miss Adler and said, “I'm so sorry, but I have to go. If you want to call on me tomorrow when I'm fully recovered please feel free. I apologise profusely my imprudent and inappropriate behaviour. I should have sent for Dr Watson. Please do forgive me."

           Something about the sudden shift in his demeanor, not to mention his haste to go on an errand at the current hour, made her narrow her eyes curiously at him. However, she merely shook her head at his rediscovery of rectitude, refusing his attempt at an apology.

          “No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m only glad I was here. Doctor Watson could’ve taken far too long to arrive,” she pointed out humbley. “But, I will leave you to your business,” she added, placing a hand atop his own for a brief moment in parting, afraid any other contact might make him twitch away with how uneasy his gaze remained, and stood to leave. Not that she had many intentions to leave him to his own devices for long.

* * *

 

           Once The Woman had safely left the premise of 221b Sherlock carelessly dressed in the nearest set of trousers, shirt, and waistcoat that he could find, grabbing a scarf and a long frock coat that he could turn up the collar of in order to conceal his face on his journey. After which he headed downstairs and outside to hail a hansom cab, which he managed to achieve remarkably quickly. Thanks be to George.

          Of course it wasn’t as if his face was foreign at the establishment he was currently headed to. No, not at all. In fact, he would have certainly gone there the night prior had he not prefered his own solution and the solitude of his bath and home. No, he had to be in a particular mood to enjoy the lounging, social qualities of chasing the Red Dragon. Fortunately, for his addiction, and therefore himself, he was currently still too ‘hungover’ and preoccupied by the recent events to have any inkling of temptation. It was the woman that had her humble ‘establishment’ located in the lot behind the opium den that he was so eager to get to.

          And so, after what felt like a very lengthy cab ride, during which the detective was convinced he was going to be sick several times, Sherlock Holmes was finally deposited in front of the dreary, grimy street of Chinatown’s best kept secret, Ah Sing’s Opium Den, or John Johnston as he was known to his clients -- an immigrant from Amoy, China. Sherlock, of course, knew and called him by his given name. Honestly, god forbid not all of Victoria’s London be gentrified.

          Standing just inside the awning of the subtle back door in the unassuming looking building, Ah Sing smiled at the approaching detective in a familiar way.  
“Mr. Holmes, it’s been awhile since I’ve had the honour of your custom.”

          “Yes, I’ve been distracted by my own concoctions ….. Not to my favour, it seems.” He answered with a grimace, referencing his sallow skin and sunken eyes. “I need to speak with Madam Simza, Sing, is she in?” He asked out of mere politeness. A quick scan of the lounge when he had entered the establishment had told him all he needed to know on that front. Not to mention the smoke that was clearly issuing from her _vardo_ in the back.

          The other man nodded slowly, understanding him and perhaps smugly unsurprised at his state. “Leave it to me next time, Mr. Holmes. But yes, the lady should be free,” he gestured him towards the back.

          “Thank you.” Sherlock responded with a weak smile, running a hand through his short hair which he had, in haste to get ready to depart, forgotten to slick back anew before following the short Asian man past the field of dilapidated patrons to a corner in the back where a door was positioned that allowed entry between into the petite and grimy back yard where the woman rented space for her mobile abode.

          Not too far behind the intrepid detective’s entrance, a smaller individual in breeches, a sparse mustache and a flat cap tipped overturning the eyes made their way into the hazy atmosphere of the den. Everyone was much too preoccupied in their own delirium to pay this young fellow any mind, much less note that ‘he’ was in fact no ‘fellow’ at all.

          It was hardly the first time Irene had needed to alter her appearance for freedom of movement, nor even in dealing with Sherlock Holmes in such a state. It was, however, the first in which the concern was not only for her own sake. That being said, it was with much relief and great curiosity that the detective seemed to pass by his usual indulgences only to exit once more, in search of something else. And Irene was apparently about to find out what.

          Shuffling her cards in a practiced, quick motion, Madam Simza heard the impending approach of the consulting detective before he appeared before her. However, his usual quick precise gait was staggered, the hard soles of his shoes scuffing off the ground uncharacteristically, and his unease was clear in his eyes.

          “Sherlock Holmes, you look troubled,” she remarked without an ounce of surprise, giving him a small smile as she gestured him to come forward.

          He gave her a weak excuse of a grin, as he straggled into the small compartment, doing his best to disregard the plethora of incense that seemed to be wafting throughout the space. Ironic for when he took to his habit and in a stupour he very much appreciated the odor that it offered. However, as that which is with most things in life, one rarely ever acknowledges their affinities when partaking in their personal ‘sins’.

          He turned to thank Sing quickly as the man departed before turning to a small chair in front of her table.

         “As ever your third eye is accurate. How have you been?” he inquired with a wince as he finally sat down.

        “Fair as can be expected, but you are not here to talk about me,” she replied succinctly in her lightly accented English. “How can I be of service?”

         He eyed her in mock suspicion before settling back into his chair and giving her a look of defeat, “I want to collect my due from you…..” he began gingerly, running his hands over his thighs anxiously. “I had a dream….” he offered up finally.

        Her dark eyes focused more clearly on his as he spoke, slowing her hands flirtations with the cards. “Dreams can be quite telling things, Mr. Holmes. Of what kind was this dream?”

        He hesitated for a moment, his eyes falling on her static hands before meeting her knowing gaze to answer, “It was….a marriage of two kinds of dreams…. or so I assume, never having had the one kind….” he trailed off, clearly hesitant to speak of either, though especially the foreign one.

        She quirked a brow. “I can promise you I have assuredly heard worse,” she encouraged knowingly, plucking three cards from the top of her deck and placing them face down in front of him. “Or would you rather I guess?”

          He eyed the cards cautiously, lips twitching. He was always one to enjoy a challenge. “Please do,” he answered, steepling his digits against his mouth.

          She sensed a provocation in his tone and her mouth curved crookedly. “Very well,” she assented, moving her ring-clad fingers to the first card on his left, turning it over to reveal an elaborate depiction of an ornate chalice, upside down from his side of the table. She tutted knowingly.

          “Your cup is overturned. You’re running away from something, Mr. Holmes - more than likely yourself,” she told him definitively. “And not succeeding. It’s beginning to interfere with your mind.”

         Sherlock took a sharp inhale of breath as he read the card for himself, her words only confirming what he had assumed. He was being silly, however, he assured himself. There was no logical power to this whatsoever. Was there?

         He shook his head and cleared his throat before grabbing her hand from across the table to halt her continuance of her play, “Madame, please, It is about… a woman. And a nightmare….” he finally revealed, taking his hand away from hers slowly as his words hung between them.

         Of all things Irene could have assumed a man would be seeking behind an opium den at night, a fortune teller was not one of her first choices. But with the very real and perhaps even mortal fear in Holmes’ eyes upon his awakening, outside of psychology, the Romani were as good as any source. It was the subject matter that had her looming nearer the cart to peer in through a small window.

          Simza paused at his words, but shook off his hand gracefully only to flip the remaining two cards quickly, both also in the reversed position. “So I can tell,” she remarked pointedly, revealing The Lovers and the hooded form of Death to accompany the Ace of Cups. She looked up and raised her brows. “And this woman - there are complications, yes?”

          Sherlock glanced down and furrowed his brows, already resisting the magic she was trying to rely on, or so he thought.  
“‘Complications?!’ Ha! She was a semi-former client who happened to reappear. She is quite married and seems to find amusement in entertaining herself with me when her husband is working.” He retorted haughtily and far too quickly for his defiance to come off as anything but overly defensive, and therefore, very contradictory to truth.

          A sound not unlike the kickup of gravel hit Simza’s ears from just outside her abode - for the second time, though she quickly returned her attention to the distracted man in front of her, nodding heartily in confirmation. “Complications,” she agreed flatly, on two different levels now it seemed.

         “And by ‘entertain’ I can assume you don’t mean sexually, or you wouldn’t be so repressed.” The blunt observation was not treated as a question. “And your nightmare?”

          Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it as the woman brought a finger to her mouth as if in suggestion. He exhaled heavily before looking down and nodding slowly. “It was about…. Moriarty… and her. But…. it was… I was reliving an actual memory from my Mind Palace… but it was destroyed… I mean granted I was coming down from an epic high…. but… I've never woken up from one with… with… with an arousal…” he shuffled to say, ears turning red as he tensed his jaw in anxious habit upon speaking the three syllable unit of language.

          Simza did not seem surprised, as she tapped the card of Death with a fingernail. “Death tells me all we need to know. But this is not real death, you see. For you, it is fear. You fear her influence, and that fear is the same that leaves your enemy to haunt you, even in the afterlife. He arrived in your memory as a warning. You’re fighting against the tide, Sherlock Holmes,” she pointed out, softly. “And the harder you fight, the universe is just going to fight you back. Your mind knows that, or it wouldn’t be pressing you.”

          If any more blood could have left the detective's face it would, however, he was far too ill for her words to show much effect. He stared at her for a moment or two with utter blankness before finally unhinging his jaw to ask, “What am I supposed to do then?”

         “Your dream is reminding you that you’re human,” she simplified, swiping the cards off the table. “This woman - Moriarty - your feelings in regards to them make you feel weakness. Stop pretending you’re above it, and perhaps they’ll stop haunting you, for one. However, the fact they both appear together might also suggest you fear for her safety. Is she is foreseeable danger?”

           The detective’s brow furrowed in perplextion and frustration, both at himself and at her words. Watching her collect the cards with deft hands, Sherlock took a moment to close his eyes and collect himself. It was only for a moment, however, as he was wise enough to know that even the lack of her access to the windows of his soul was equally as informative as they, themselves were.

           He exhaled finally, “Perhaps. But when isn't a woman or person of her nature? When am I not? However, I’m sure her husband provides adequate protection enough. As does she herself. Her relations with me are merely…. restorative in terms of righting her past and reputation.” He prattled out far more machine-like and more quickly than was needed. “She’s married.” He emphasised suddenly, his tone suddenly steel, probably more directed at the nature of the thing itself rather than her suggestive attempt to imply that he should, perhaps, act on his ‘feelings’.

          “So are you, need I remind you? To your vocation. But clearly, the universe is telling you something,” she emphasised, less than subtly as she slowly wrapped the neatly stacked deck in a scrap of velvet, hiding it from his view in preparation for her next customer. Quick coming it would seem.

         “I am not advising you to do anything rash, Mr. Holmes - that would be...crude of me.” Her emphasis was somewhat wry. “Merely to stop the blocking of your emotions. Even your mind can get over-wrought if you never let it breathe. And suffocating it is precisely what you’re doing. Whether doing so will rid you of your infatuation...I cannot tell you. But God is not one to send messages lightly. She serves a purpose in your life, or she would not be in it. She has returned to you for a reason. Find it, and perhaps you will find peace.”

            He gave a curt if somewhat reluctant nod of affirmation, fiddling with his pocket watch which he had, apparently, taken out to toy with out of anxiety or some cousin of it, moments ago, before suddenly dropping it to beg, “Can you give something for the….physical...urges. Please.” His tone far beyond the realms of desperation and his look ripe with fear, adding haphasardly as a revealing afterthought, “How can I continue to be in her presence with...if…I can't control… if all I want to do is…” He swore under his breath and clicked is jaw, eyeing her again with obvious need and determined resentment.

          She watched his desperation with a sad smile, only perhaps a tinge of humour tainting it at the man who seemed to know everything but himself, and sighed. "Mr. Holmes, there is no cure for humanity, magic or other. But...I’ll see what I’ve got,” she assuaged him, reluctantly with a sigh, standing in the narrow space to take a look through a drawer off to the left of her table, which also had some herbs suspended from the open window above it, drying for use.

          Outside of her vardo, a crouched figure was visible, barely peeking from the shadows, and whose eyes Simza was just able to catch. The figure made to flee, however, the older of the women shook her head discretely, her kohl-rimmed eyes broking little reproach.

          “Ginseng would help with sleep, but it happens to increase sexual potency, so not a good choice for you…” she murmured audibly, turning her attention back to the detective as she rifled, coming up with a few sachets which she considered. She tossed one in his direction. “Mullein and agrimony for the nightmares - and the courage. Sleep with that under your pillow.”

         After another moment, two more cloth satchels popped into his perspective from below her, holding one up at a time. “Pine - burn it, as incense, it will help to clear your head, and relieve guilt. Lavender and rosemary for the purification of thoughts. Drink it as a tea, or put it in a bath, either way - it could do your mind and your spirit some good. But, in terms of your body…” She eyed him skeptically, already foreseeing a complete disregard for her advice. “There’s only so much space for tension. Perhaps you should consider another… outlet for that particular calibre of energy.”

        Sherlock listened to her patiently, eyes falling suspiciously at each new item that fell before him, picking each up and examining each satchel and herb individually, making a grimace here and a tut there.

       However, he paused his perusal of her goods upon her last comment, his brows coming together as his face contorted in confusion and apprehensive disapproval.

          “.....Such as?” He queried her with the gingerness of a tightrope walker above a burning bed of tar.

         The woman sighed once more, murmuring a few syllables in her mother tongue. “Mr. Holmes, you are far too smart a man to be ignorant, though you English do always surprise me in your prudish ways. Perhaps I should give you the ginseng after all,” she grumbled with a mild chuckle.

          “Alleviate yourself. Alone or no, irrelevant to me. I am not your doctor nor your priest, but consider it a _medicinal_ recommendation. Or would you rather this be a consistent issue? In blunter words, Mr. Holmes - _ignore it long enough, it may just fall off_.”

           Sherlock felt his face flush a deep crimson and he hastily stood, knocking the chair backwards with a clank. He mumbled a thank you and offered down a few coins despite the fact that she had been in his debt, and scooped up her offerings into his pockets before turning to leave.

           He paused at the door, however, to turn his head to the side to ask indirectly, “What do your people have to say about the idea of …. soul mates? Literally, that two are only half until they meet and made whole?” He clarified, keeping his own citation of reference discreet.

         “We are all stars scattered in the sight of God,” she began simply, standing his chair back on end with an unsurprised, if bemused expression at his response. “Occasionally, amidst the chaos, we find our way back where we belong.”

         “Hmph…. bollox then.” He said with a wry grin to himself, for his tone was most clearly split between concession and dismissal. He then turned up his collar and left the premise.

         Madam Simza poked her head out of the door, waiting until the taller figure had reentered the building proper to whistle, sharp and brisk, but brief. “Come in, I don’t bite,” she called softly in the general direction of where she had seen her unannounced visitor.

          Irene cautiously but obediently made her way up the wagon’s stairs and into the mystic's abode. She felt oddly vulnerable suddenly, despite gaining the extra assurance she always felt when dressed as a man, her psyche being, perhaps, in some ways, more ‘classically masculine, than was normally accepted. Or perhaps just more prone to being acknowledged as a human. In society, there seemed to be little distinction.

          She met the woman’s eyes and immediately felt intruded upon, but not without her consent, per se. It was as if the woman had invited herself to see into her soul, and she had no choice but to agree.

          She removed her cap, exposing her pinned raven hair and swallowed, “Don't tell him. Please.”

         Simza merely grinned, and seated herself back in her chair. “I have no intention of meddling in whatever...situation you have found yourself in, my dear. But if you’ve gone to the trouble of dressing as a man to follow him, I doubt I need to....However that also places you in a position of power.”

        “Given of what I heard, I'd want to agree with you.” She confirmed with a subtle grin, “Of course, what Mr Holmes decides to do about it all is entirely up to him. He seems to need gentle hands these days, so I will continue to wear gloves with him.” She added with conviction, glancing to the woman, however, as if to check if that were the right course of action, if there was such a thing at all.

          “I believe your decision in the matter is the more important one,” she insinuated lightly, eyeing her with a piercing if curious gaze. “You’re a married woman, no? ‘Happily’ perhaps would be an exaggeration…” she mused, with a shrug, eyeing her response to the words.

         “Not a title many can truly claim, these days,” Irene responded obscurely, returning the other woman’s scrutiny, though she failed to detect any ulterior motives for her curiosity, save perhaps a shared concern for the man in question.

          “He had a difficult night, I just wanted to ensure he hadn’t decided to willfully make it more so…”

          Simza peered at her fondly, a small smirk of inquisition gracing the corners of her mouth before she opened it to ask simply, “And just how much did you hear, hm?”

      “Almost everything. Nothing I didn’t know or couldn’t infer, exactly...though the specifics are certainly of use,” she replied, with vague intent, and a backwards sort of nod of thanks. “Though he didn’t strike me as the superstitious type…” she trailed, curiously.

          The older woman chuckled knowingly, “Oh trust me, dear, he is not. Though it must be noted that those who are most critical to the mystic world are often the ones that need its help most. Now then,” she paused to take a step or two towards The Woman, grabbing the small satchel of Ginseng from the table, her long fingers fiddling with it in turn, “the question remains, what shall you do? Hm?”


End file.
